Voir
by Kang Xiu
Summary: Nikki Enjolras, the blind boy. What sport it is to sit alone and imagine that you are surrounded by men. What bliss to touch the hands of children. But children leave so very quickly... Completed
1. Voir

Interested to see the reaction to Nikki. *pets him* V. new figment to experiment with.  
  
Voir  
  
Nicolas is used to being in utter darkness. After twenty-two years, he would be. But even after twenty-two years, there are days he wonders what it would be like to go into a room and *have* to light a lamp in order find his way about. Sometimes he wonders what colour Feuilly's hair really is, and the word "black" stops sufficing. He knows black, because black is what always surrounds him. To see black, though, to really see what sort of black... Nicolas sometimes thinks he would like nothing better. But the things he desires are small compared to the things his children need.  
  
He is used to being in utter darkness, and he often thinks that it makes him equal with his children. He remembers the small hands tugging at his coat, the worn hands, the bleeding hands that left damp spots. All the children on the streets, with no homes, some of them with no parents; inside his head he calls them his children. They are as blind as he is, really. They cannot see the word except through a haze of hunger and pain. He walks among them often, and sometimes he kneels by them, to bring their heights closer together, and he holds out his hands full of cold pieces of money, and he feels the children snatching them away, and their hands are colder than any sous.  
  
Back at the cafe, Combeferre tries so very hard to be helpful, and takes down the words Nicolas murmurs to him, but Combeferre has such warm hands that Nicolas cannot love him as he loves his children. He will free them, he promises himself. He will create an equal world where every man has rights and in that equal world everyone will be provided for, and in that equal world his children will learn to read and write and speak, for they will have all the chances he was given. In the Republique, the people's needs will be important, and brotherhood will unite them together to take care of one another.  
  
When Feuilly first asked to join them, Nicolas welcomed him as he did every one of his Amis, by touching Feuilly's face and learning it, and by studying for a short while the way the man breathed and walked, so he could tell him apart from other men. And when he held Feuilly's hands, learning them, they were cold as his children's hands, and worn as well. Feuilly has a soft voice, with a hint of an accent to it, and Nicolas loves that voice. Everything about Feuilly is perfect to Nicolas, and he imagines that if his children were to live past childhood, they would speak as Feuilly does and feel like him.  
  
Sometimes, Feuilly offers to be the one who will write for him and walk with him. When that is so, Nicolas is always content and quiet, and he composes his speeches slowly, turning each word over carefully. He asks Feuilly's opinion more than Combeferre's, and he seems happier.  
  
Combeferre watches the two of them together with a hint of amusement. Nicolas is tall and his long, golden hair is always tied back with black ribbon. He wears long coats of a rather nice material. Feuilly is short and leaves his black hair unbound about his shoulders. His clothes are shabby. And yet they make a better picture, as they sit at a table speaking, than any Combeferre's seen.  
  
And it's as if Nicolas can tell. He holds his back proudly. But he thinks, listening to Feuilly's voice, that it would be nice to know what the man *really* looks like. He is used to being in utter darkness, but sometimes he longs to see the world he will set free.  
  
To Be Continued, almost certainly. 


	2. Quiet

An explanation.  
  
"Quiet"  
  
Nicolas always wonders why his children leave so fast.  
  
Feuilly walks with him when he visits them, and sets a hand at his back to help him kneel, which is ludicrous, because he can not only kneel on his own, but he's far taller than Feuilly. It wouldn't be Feuilly they run from, for even when he isn't there they do.  
  
Nicolas is sometimes afraid it's his height, perhaps that. Perhaps his hands. He doesn't have nice hands, as Feuilly's are. His fingers are short, and his nails fold on each other. The bones on the heels of his palms stick out, and the lines for life - and all the rest - are rather deeper than they should be. He doesn't have nice hands at all, and there are times it upsets him. But it shouldn't be his hands...  
  
Perhaps it's just that he is so clearly a rich boy, with his velvet hair ribbons. Perhaps he should be done with that luxury. He always liked the feel of velvet mixed in with his hair, and Maman said black and gold melted together wonderfully, but, really, it's a vanity. Perhaps he ought to buy a second-hand coat, and try to be more like they are.  
  
He never considers his eyes, because he doesn't know what they look like. He can't tell that they're white and blank, because he's never seen anyone else's eyes or his own to compare with. He doesn't know that when he looks past them, and smiles beautifully for them because he loves them so, they stare and run.  
  
Feuilly doesn't have the heart to tell him. Perhaps he should.  
  
As it is, Nicolas is left to worry and wonder, is it hands, is it wealth? Why do his children fear him? He spends hours in his apartment, sitting by the window, wishing he knew so he could correct it. He knows what he wants. He wants to free them all, and he doesn't need anything in return. He wouldn't take anything from his children. All his beautiful children, who he adores. He will fight for them and not ask a scrap of affection.  
  
But, God, it would be the most wonderful gift in the entire world if once they didn't run away so quickly. If a small voice thanked him...  
  
Feuilly watches him sometimes, and thinks that this young boy, with his innocent, expressionless face, is far too young to be a father. Nicolas has never seen another person in all his life. He doesn't know how to smile or how to glare. He doesn't know how to hide the sort of feeling that shows on a face without ever needing to copy it off someone else's. He doesn't know that the part of his lips and the way he holds his head tell the entire world he hurts, because he doesn't know that they mean hurting. Feuilly can always tell when he's come back from the streets, trying to help the urchins he calls his children. And he always leads Nicolas away from the others, and talks with him until the loneliness has gone. Then he knows it's safe for them to go back. He protects Nicolas, but doesn't tell him so. The boy shouldn't be a father yet. But he never, never tells Nicolas so.  
  
And Nicolas gladly talks with Feuilly, and gladly accepts the company, and wonders always why the children run from him. Over and over, he wishes he could see, for then he'd know what was wrong and he'd remedy it. He asks for nothing in return, he wants nothing in return, but it would be heaven if they loved him as he loves them. 


	3. Quieter

A clarification.  
  
Quieter  
  
"My God, Combeferre," he whispers. "Can't you leave me be a moment?"  
  
"No-- Nicolas-- Your parents asked me to look after you in Paris. You can't go out into the city on your own," Combeferre urges desperately.  
  
"I can walk on my own. I know the way to Musain on my own. If you wanted to help me, you could speak more politic. It doesn't cause me much to want your help the way you put it. Why not trick me? Why not 'But I wanted to walk as well. Come, I shall accompany you'? That would have been so much more sensible. I'm not a child to be coddled and shown the way. I shall only go out for a short while, if that please you, caretaker. I shall be responsible about it."  
  
"No, you shan't. You're angry with me. You shall do something stupid."  
  
"You get less politic the more you say. Never any better. Of course I shall do something stupid. By now I *want* to do something stupid." Nicolas shakes his head, a brief tremour of anguish showing on his face. "Now I intend to indulge in my stupidity. I am going out by myself." He starts towards the door. Within his room, he has everything memorised. He knows exactly where anything is. He has a hand on the doorknob in a flash.  
  
For once, Combeferre doesn't start after him. Combeferre only watches as he slips outside, trembling, pulling his overcoat closer.  
  
It's moments like these that cause him to truly *hate* his blindness. Mostly it wouldn't matter, but somehow there is always someone doing things so that he can't do them himself. There's Combeferre or Feuilly kindly to write for him, read to him. There's Feuilly to come with him to visit his children. There's the tailor for the proper clothes and dreadful, maddening, sweet Combeferre to help him shave. And it truly infuriates him that he can't even do that by himself. Is it better to accept Combeferre's help, or would it be better to preserve some dignity and go to a barber? Combeferre always promises it's all right, and he can't help but trust him more. He used to go to the barber, but it bothered him a little to have an unknown person with a razor so close to his throat. He trusts Combeferre utterly, as much as he resents him. And the man is always so kind and so terribly insistent. He lives conveniently near for the purpose of making sure Nicolas has gotten out of bed properly. He is so kind and so tactless. He tries to help, and injures Nicolas' pride with his mistakes. If only he could stop that.  
  
And so Nicolas hates it. He hates depending on someone else for so much. When he was little, when he was seven, he asked Pére Noel to bring him new eyes. The girl who was to look after him was terribly upset. He was afraid, and he never made that sort of wish aloud again.  
  
Suddenly he is brought abruptly from his quiet inside remembrance by the wall of a building. He falls back a step, rubbing the sleeve of his coat over his stinging face. This is the other half of it. This sort of idiotic misstep.  
  
Poor, gentle Nicolas with his loving parents and his loving childhood friends and their *decencies*, and their helpfulness, and their horrible wrong words. Dear, sweet Nicolas, always taking special care to try and be normal. He doesn't believe that there is beauty in uniqueness and he wants nothing more than to be like everyone else! How precious! What a darling child! So tragic that he should have that nasty disability. Ah, if only he could see. Wouldn't his mother and father be so proud of their son then?  
  
He comes to his knees in an elegant swift movement, hearing the sound of bare feet and a childish girl-voice.  
  
"Mon enfant--"  
  
He hears the soft patter halt, and the soft, ragged breathing stop before him, and he digs hurriedly in his pockets for money to give his daughter. He holds it out, and her small hand brushes his for a quick second as she snatches it.  
  
"Merci, monsieur!"  
  
Nicolas freezes, going rigid all over. None of them ever thanked him before. He is entranced, enraptured, and enthralled, and doesn't dare move. It's never happened before. Oh, his children. His wonderful, beautiful children. She pauses a moment longer, then turns and rushes off, and he almost doesn't notice. They never speak to him. They always run away.  
  
He stands in a cloud of euphoria, and all his resentment towards Combeferre is forgotten. If Combeferre were to come upon him now, really, he'd embrace the man joyously. He wanders, lost in happiness, and quite lost in the streets of the city, though he doesn't realise it at all, not having any of himself to spare on such a thing. He doesn't understand the footsteps behind him as anything save footsteps. His fingers are curled in the fabric of his coat sleeves, knotted in as part of his hugging himself, and he could never have freed them in time to do anything, at any rate.  
  
Having a knife pressed up against his throat makes him think briefly on the barber. What he was always subconsciously afraid might happen is happening, and it's such a stupid thing to think on or worry about. Having a knife pressed up against his throat and not thinking what to do but how ironic that he never needed a barber for all that. A stupid thing to think on. He trips back a step to get away from the cold blade, and finds his shoulders against the chest of a tall, slender boy with a very faint scent of rose.  
  
If he wasn't blind, Nicolas thinks with sudden bitterness, he could try to defend himself. He would know what to do. And then the boy knocks Nicolas' head sharply against a wall, and watches with satisfaction as he collapses.  
  
~~~  
  
He comes back to himself with his head aching, shivering in his shirtsleeves. His coat is gone, he notes immediately. He pulls to his feet with the wall, cursing himself over and over. Yes, Combeferre was right. He's an idiot. This whole idea was idiotic. And now he's completely lost in the middle of Paris. Idiotic. Oh, God, how he hates being blind. How he *hates* it.  
  
He manages along, guiding himself by walls and still shivering. Combeferre is likely worried sick. He wouldn't blame him. Poor man. Nicolas is quite of the opinion that he'll deserve any of Combeferre's wrath, when and if he gets home. Of course Combeferre won't be angry. He'll have fretted and driven himself to distraction, and he'll be *so* very glad to see Nicolas again. He won't get the scolding he richly deserves. But one must stand that, living with kind Combeferre. That's how it goes--  
  
"Enjolras!"  
  
Oh, God. He raises his face to the voice, cursing his indignity.  
  
"Feuilly?"  
  
"Jesus, Enjolras. What in hell happened to you?" Feuilly drapes his own thin coat about Nicolas' shoulders, taking away, at least, part of the cold. "You've blood in your hair and you look a disgrace. What, then? No, I shall guess at it. Combeferre and his care. You defied him with gross disrespect for authority - terrible man - and went strolling in the enormous, dangerous, curled-adder city, and were instantly set upon and slaughtered by villains."  
  
"Not slaughtered..."  
  
"But everything else. You are, as there is candour among friends, and with all the respect you didn't give Combeferre, an idiot."  
  
"Yes, I think I know that, Feuilly."  
  
"Very well. Come with me, and we'll try and get your hair back to its natural gold. It looks far better that way. By the way, you owe me many thanks for being your clichéd coincidence and walking in this part of Paris wherein I do not normally walk."  
  
"Thank you..." He means it, and he pulls the coat closer, still feeling cold and still with traces of shivers.  
  
"You're welcome," Feuilly returns quietly, without the lightness of a moment ago.  
  
They do not speak for the rest of the walk, and even once they're in Feuilly's apartment, and he gently washes the blood away with a wet handkerchief and bowl of water, they are silent.  
  
At last, Nicolas breaks it, bitterly.  
  
"How on earth am I to conduct a revolution if I can't even go out into the city without being attacked?"  
  
"It's quite simple, Enjolras. You won't be alone in the revolution," Feuilly states matter-of-factly, dabbing at the wound.  
  
"Oh, you're dreadfully right. Why didn't I think of that? You'll all defend me from stray bullets."  
  
"Of course we will. Now hush."  
  
"Oh--"  
  
"Hush."  
  
Nicolas does, hugging his knees, trying to forget about his idiotic vulnerability. Finally, Feuilly stands, wringing out the handkerchief into the bowl of water with a squishing noise.  
  
"Is it really that simple? I shan't be alone, and I can do things when I'm not alone?"  
  
"Quite that simple."  
  
"Thank God."  
  
He lies back on Feuilly's bed, and it suddenly occurs to him that the boy who robbed him didn't take everything he'd started with. His daughter still has some amount of it. He laughs shortly, and Feuilly pokes him in the ribs.  
  
"Off the bed unless you're sleeping."  
  
"Thank you." It's a thank you for everything, though he doesn't expect Feuilly to realise that. A thank you for not being alone and for the coat and washing away the blood and walking with him when he visits his children and reading to him and offering opinions and taking down words.  
  
"You're welcome." There is an odd tone in the voice. Feuilly realises. 


	4. Silence

A breaking.  
  
Silence  
  
Nicolas walks with Feuilly more often than before, and Feuilly helps him learn the city. He learns, carefully, by walking upon the same stones over and over, until he knows which street feels like what. Of course, they don't walk very far out of his way. The streets he memorises are the ones leading to the church, to certain cafes where he speaks, and to the places he wishes to go without help. It's important, more important than before, that he learn such things. He doesn't want to be lost ever again.  
  
Feuilly also teaches him to defend himself. It doesn't seem to be a structured protection; just where to hit an attacker and how to duck under a knife. This, too, is important.  
  
At last, Nicolas can go out by himself without feeling a sick, warm fear in his stomach, and the wound in the side of his head is almost forgotten.  
  
He goes once more to visit his children, holding his back straight, his long coat flapping about his knees. He's taken out the velvet ribbon from his golden hair in a vague hope, and the strong wind blows it into his face. Between the dark coat and his pale face and his overlong, swirling hair, he looks rather like an ominous spectre.  
  
He finds the customary place, and kneels, waiting, holding out his hands with offerings. It isn't long before they come, taking from him without giving back. Almost seven minutes later, he has nothing left, and he begins to stand.  
  
He turns in the direction of the wind, letting it blow into his face and whisper in his ears and wrap silky invisible strands around his neck. He rests the back of his hand over his eyes, feeling rather tired, and cold. He begins his journey home wearily, tripping just a little over his boots.  
  
Suddenly, he feels a tugging at the hem of his coat, and turns about quickly from habit.  
  
"Monsieur, spare a sous?"  
  
It makes his chest ache as though he were being torn apart. Her voice is soft, and ragged, and pleading, and he's given away everything he brought with him. He drops to one knee before her, wishing that he'd kept his hair ribbon, for surely velvet must be worth something.  
  
"I... I don't..."  
  
She backs away, slowly, and is gone just as suddenly as she came to him. He stands again, shivering a little, and feeling colder and more tired. It takes him very little time to return to his apartment, and when he gets there, he curls up in the bed without even bothering to take off his boots or coat.  
  
Feuilly chances in a little while later, and sits beside him.  
  
"Someday..."  
  
"I know. Don't worry. It's soon."  
  
"Will they be happy?"  
  
"They'll be terribly happy, all of them. Don't fret."  
  
"Perhaps they'll love me."  
  
"Of course they will." Feuilly strokes back Nicolas' hair from his face. "Soon. Give it five months, perhaps even four. You haven't long to wait. And they shall be happy, and love you." 


	5. Stillness

A loss.  
  
Stillness  
  
For the first time in a while, Nicolas is feeling happier, and he comes into Musain and spreads his things out on the table with a dignified, but pleasant, air. He always brings books with him places, although he cannot read them, and likewise he brings quills, ink, and paper, all residing deep in the pockets of his long greatcoat. There's no point, really, but he likes the feel of book covers, and he likes the round glass of inkpots. He likes the soft rough of parchment, and the lovely feel of feathers. These are his reasons. And, of course, if he needs to write a speech or something of the sort, he can accost a trusted Ami and supply his own writing materials. So he justifies his possessions well, tucks them into his pockets, and unloads them onto his table at Musain. He always puts them in the exact same places: this book here; that one there; the small pot of ink on the left-hand side, high. He knows where everything is, and it contents him and pleases him.  
  
Today, he brings with him something new. Feuilly gave him a fan yesterday, a long, slender silk fan. Feuilly said it was painted with a white unicorn lying in a field of flowers. Of course, Nicolas doesn't know what a unicorn looks like, or flowers, but it sounds lovely, and it feels lovelier. Silk is such a wonderful material. He sets it down beside the inkpot, terribly carefully, then sits. The sun was out this morning, warm on his face, and he really does feel happy again. It will be a good day.  
  
He stands again, hearing Combeferre's voice, and steps over to him. His face is innocently expressionless, but he radiates his pleasure nevertheless.  
  
Combeferre touches his shoulder in greeting, and murmurs, "Enjolras, this is Jehan Prouvaire. He's new."  
  
"Ah, I see. Welcome." Nicolas inclines his head politely. "Please come closer."  
  
Prouvaire does so, obediently, and Nicolas begins running his fingers over the boy's face. It is quite clear Prouvaire is a boy. His face is young. It's almost sad, Nicolas thinks. This child may die for children. From the turn of Prouvaire's head, he seems to be looking away to Nicolas' left, but it doesn't strike him as very odd, for he's used to men doing that. At last, he draws back from young Prouvaire, and tells him once again he is welcome.  
  
The boy's voice is shuddery and awed as he thanks Nicolas. He allows Combeferre to lead him to a table and offer him a glass of wine.  
  
Nicolas himself returns to his table, though not before overhearing Prouvaire say, "He's amazing... His *hands*... Is that a ceremony?"  
  
As it is, and Combeferre knows that, Nicolas doesn't take it upon himself to interfere. Combeferre is good at explaining things, and seems to like it too, so it's become his place.  
  
He sits at his table, reaching out his hand for the fan. He stretches his fingers as far as they'll go, and realises he must have missed it. He reaches again, to the side, fighting down apprehension. It isn't there. He tries again, and stands, bending his back and searching, his sleeves getting in the way. The inkpot is gone as well, though the books are all there. He put it in the exact same place as always. As every day.  
  
Nicolas' throat tightens a little and his search becomes slightly frantic. It should be here. They should both be here. He pushes back his hair as it escapes from its ribbon, and gets his fingers tangled by mistake. He straightens, shaking, and forces himself to untangle his fingers slowly. Then - slowly - he leans over the table again, running his hands over the entire surface, hoping desperately to find the things.  
  
He can't.  
  
He falls back a step, and startles as he comes up against something solid. "God!"  
  
"Enjolras?" Prouvaire's soft voice asks.  
  
"Pardon," he murmurs. "I was... looking for something I misplaced."  
  
"These?" The boy has hands as soft as his voice, fingers far nicer to touch than Nicolas'. Prouvaire places them over Nicolas' hands for a short moment, and Nicolas recognises the shape of the inkpot and the feel of the fan.  
  
"Prouvaire?"  
  
"I noticed they were missing. I brought them back."  
  
"What are you?"  
  
"A poet."  
  
"Not a conjurer?" Nicolas tucks the fan protectively in his waistcoat, but returns the inkpot to its usual place. "Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
Prouvaire turns and walks away, his footsteps also soft. Nicolas sits, but his happiness is gone. He berates himself silently, for the panic, for the foolishness. He realises, abruptly, that he neglected to ask Prouvaire where he had found the things. He sighs, and once again demands of himself how he intends to conduct a revolution when he can't even keep his belongings straight. If he shows so much worry and fright when the fan goes missing, what will he do if the fan-maker does the same?  
  
Prouvaire, meanwhile, sits at Grantaire's table.  
  
"Don't do that. It upset him."  
  
Grantaire glowers fuzzily at the boy before him. "I shall do as I please. I can't help it, anyway."  
  
"Of course you can. Stop it. I only chanced to see you taking them anyway. Next time you might get away with it."  
  
"I have before."  
  
"You'll make him go mad."  
  
"I shan't either."  
  
"Don't, any longer."  
  
Grantaire snorts in answer, and returns to his bottle. Prouvaire stands, emitting an air of reproach and disappointment, and seeks out Combeferre. If anyone makes sense, he does.  
  
Only Grantaire notices, and watches longingly, as Nicolas leaves the cafe, taking his books and papers and possessions with him. 


	6. Sightless

A dream.  
  
Sightless  
  
[[[All around him he smells salt. It's everywhere, astringent, strong. It smells like home, but stronger. Nicolas puts his hands out in front of him, into the darkness, then turns about, slowly, and finds there's nothing within in an arm's length on any side. He kneels, unsure, and places his hands flat on the ground. He feels sand. It *is* like home. He lifts a handful and sifts it through his fingers, soft and silky and dry. He isn't terribly near the ocean, then.  
  
He hears footsteps suddenly, and feels a tiny spray of sand as the little girl crashes into him. She's shorter than he is on his knees, and she trembles, and her clothes are torn. She's also crying, and he wraps his arms about her gently. Somehow, it doesn't surprise him that she trusts him and doesn't run away. Of course he's *glad* she's not afraid of him like his other children, but somehow he knew she'd not be frightened. She sobs into his shoulder, and he strokes her hair.  
  
"Mon enfant..."  
  
She begins to touch his face with one of her hands, even while crying, poking him and pressing her fingers in between his lips and in his ears.  
  
Of course, she's blind as well.  
  
Nicolas feels as though this girl is not his daughter because he adopted her as such, but because he really is her father. He whispers comforts to her, and delicately pushes her hair back from her face, touching it as she did his.  
  
He doesn't have any money in his pockets, but it doesn't matter now. He doesn't need to give anything like that to her. All he needs to do is tell her it's all right, and reassure her with his careful, gentle hands.]]]  
  
Nicolas awakens from the dream slowly, lying on his side in bed. He sits up, almost confused. There's warm coming in the window, so it's morning. He rakes his fingers through his tangled hair, yawning in a contemplative manner.  
  
He dresses, feeling vague, trying to remember everything about the blind girl in the dream. Her hands were dreadfully cold, and thin. He remembers her fingertips poking his eyelids. Suddenly, more than anything, he wants to find her. He's certain she was real.  
  
"As they say, a dream come true. They say it is a wondrous thing to have one's dream come true," he mumbles to himself, tying his cravat. Evidentially, though the warm in the window proves the sun to be out, it's early, for otherwise Combeferre would be here, making sure he's all right. Nicolas rubs the back of his hand over his chin, feels the roughness. He steps over to the chair by his bed, takes his overcoat from it, and pulls the coat on. It's a better overcoat that one stolen from him a month ago. Longer. Bigger pockets.  
  
He walks to the door and slips out happily. Freedom is waking up early in the morning.  
  
And this morning, he's going to search for his dream.  
  
Nicolas wanders the streets as he always does, going to the same places he always goes to, kneeling in the same spot he always does, feeling stone instead of sand beneath his knees. He holds out his hands with money, and refuses sternly to allow even the quick retreats to hurt him.  
  
When his children are gone, he stays for a little while, thinking of them. He does love them so. Soon, soon he will free them. He will give them all happiness, and see that they are taken care of. He will look after them, as a father should.  
  
It occurs to him that the best way to find his dream is to ask for her, instead of waiting for her to come to him. Perhaps he is a bit fanciful in believing a dream can come true, but he chooses to be logical now and not rely on coincidence to find the dream.  
  
He wanders, in his usual way, to a new place, where there will be new children, and gives to them most of what he has left. He gently catches the sleeve of the last boy to leave.  
  
"Monsieur," his son protests.  
  
"Mon garcon. Is there a blind gamine in this city?"  
  
"Probably loads. Don't see how they live, though."  
  
Nicolas pauses at the momentary setback. "Can you tell me where one of them might be?" he asks at last, disturbing the boy's efforts to tug away.  
  
"'Course. There's one living in an alley by the Rue de St. Jacques."  
  
"Merci, merci." Nicolas gives him a few coins more, and the boy escapes.  
  
Nicolas begins his quest.  
  
He asks, every few streets, if he's still going in the right direction, and it's affirmed, or else he's turned about. At length he finds the Rue de St. Jacques, and feels his way along the walls of the houses, venturing a bit into each alley. Finally, he hears movement in the back of one and reassuringly tells the unseen, "Don't be afraid." He continues forward, fingertips just brushing the wall.  
  
New footsteps approach, haltingly, and the girl's voice asks, "Who are you?"  
  
Nicolas stops in surprise. She's far older than he imagined. Her voice is far older. Almost fourteen, perhaps.  
  
"Nicolas. I..."  
  
She stops before him, and reaches out to touch his face. "Nicolas?" Her fingers explore his ears and the curve of his lips just as his dream did. She makes him think of himself. But her fingers are bleeding ones, like others that touched his coat, and he pities her and loves her, because she is his daughter. "I don't know you, though."  
  
"I am also blind." He, in turn, lifts his fingers to her face. He feels as though he were surrounded by snow: everything is quiet, in a muffled sort of way. It's as though they were singled out.  
  
Her face is cold; her nose is cold, her lips are cold, her eyelids and forehead and ears are cold. Her lips are also chapped and also bleeding a little. She speaks again while his fingers are touching them, and he startles at the movement.  
  
"Oh, but... Then I don't understand. Did you come looking for me?"  
  
"Yes..."  
  
"Because I'm blind?"  
  
"Yes. Because I dreamed of a blind girl, and I wanted to know if she existed. But you're only half-her. You're different," he adds.  
  
The girl laughs, and it's such an odd thing, to hear her laugh. Her voice seems as though it weren't meant for laughing. Not that it sounds meant for weeping, but that it sounds odd to hear her laugh with it. Nicolas blushes.  
  
"I'm sorry, monsieur, that I'm not the right girl."  
  
"It doesn't matter," Nicolas whispers. Everything he has left in the nice, large pockets, everything he can gather up he does, and he takes one of her hands and presses it all upon her. "I apologise."  
  
For a moment, he expects her to refuse, but she doesn't; there is the faintest of rustlings as she puts it, he supposes, in her skirt pocket. "Merci, monsieur."  
  
"Merci, mon fille." He retreats back into the open street, hearing her harsh, odd laughter behind him. He wanders back along the streets, sighing just a little, and feeling strangely disillusioned.  
  
It's not always good to have your dream come true. 


	7. Blind

Something forgotten.  
  
Blind  
  
Nicolas wakes early the following morning, but this morning he has no desire to get up and try to elude Combeferre. He lies in bed, running his fingers over his face where the girl did, and feeling cold inside. Dreams, dreams, dreams. He wants the revolution, he longs for it. It's more important now than ever before. Everything is. He depends too much on his Amis. He must do some things alone or they will never believe in him. He needs to make more speeches and rally ever more men. He needs to call them to him, and build his barricades in the streets of Paris. He needs to save his children.  
  
He still feels cold inside, and it occurs to him that he's lonely. He thinks for a moment, childishly, that he wants Feuilly. Dear Feuilly, the man who reminds him of his children, with cold, worn fingertips, and the pleasant voice. He hasn't been with Feuilly in a few days now, and he rather misses him.  
  
He turns over sharply as the door opens, and the familiar tread - that which belongs to Combeferre - enters.  
  
"Nicolas?"  
  
"Bonjour," he says tiredly.  
  
"Nicolas." Combeferre draws over the chair and sits by the bedside. "Nicolas, I keep meaning to tell you. I know you care for the street children, but you can't continue to give money away like this. You just can't afford it."  
  
"I'd give them everything."  
  
"I know you would, but you can't. Be sensible. I know you can be sensible. You can't have much left by now. You don't have a job. You refuse to borrow money. You can't do this."  
  
"I can. I don't intend to stop."  
  
"Nicolas!"  
  
Nicolas sits up, and catches both Combeferre's hands. "No, you don't understand! How could I stop? They expect me. They know when I come that I'll give to them. How could I just walk past them without doing so? I can't get a job. No one will hire a blind man. I can't borrow because I'd never be able to pay it back. But you can't tell me I ought just stop giving to *them*. They know me. I love them."  
  
Combeferre sighs. "I know, I know. I know." He strokes back Nicolas' hair the same way Feuilly did a week ago.  
  
"It's May, non? Lamarque is fading fast. I shan't need my money to last much longer anyway."  
  
"I suppose that's true..." Combeferre sighs again. "Well, you'd best get up. You're growing a lovely beard."  
  
"Oh--" Nicolas laughs, somewhat shakily. "I am, aren't I? All right." He takes a deep breath, regains his composure, and climbs out of bed. "And-- Combeferre? I'll try to give not... quite as much."  
  
"Thank you," Combeferre says gratefully, and embraces him quickly.  
  
Nicolas begins to feel a little less cold. 


	8. Peace

An interval  
  
Peace  
  
This time, when Nicolas goes to the cafe, he brings the fan tucked into his coat pocket. It will be safe there. He worries over it; the lovely, smooth thing, so easily broken, is his to protect. Now that it belongs to him, he must look over it. He sits at his usual table and takes out his things and puts them each in their proper place, but the fan remains in its safe cloth confinement.  
  
Combeferre sits beside him, watching him gently. Just as Nicolas is taking care of the fan, Combeferre is taking care of Nicolas. Nicolas is his charge. The poor boy. All these beautiful dreams and ideals all for the sake of a few street children. The peculiar thing is, Nicolas is blind and helpless and naive. He needs the taking care of. And yet, he memorises the speeches and tells them to men in his clear, sweet voice, and men listen. Even Combeferre himself listens, although he's heard the speeches all before; he was the one who wrote them down so they wouldn't be lost. He knows them by heart just as well as Nicolas, and he is captured and lost in the words as though it was the first time he'd ever heard the blind boy speak. Is it blindness, then, that makes a martyr? Is it disability that causes Nicolas to be more aware of those who are disabled, in their own ways? Combeferre tells himself Nicolas needs looking after, because Nicolas does. He gets lost, he gets tangled in himself. He can't do many things by himself. But perhaps that's because he's never been allowed to do them.  
  
Nicolas disturbs Combeferre by tugging on his sleeve with one bent hand, and asking him politely, "Combeferre, will you read more of Keats? Of Endymion?"  
  
Combeferre sorts through the books on Nicolas' table complacently. Nicolas isn't often happy like this, and he rather wishes it weren't so. He is quite devoted, even if it's often misinterpreted as unnecessary fussing, and he wants Nicolas to be happy.  
  
"Shall I take up from where I left off? I doubt you could even remember a word of it. Can you think of anything but your speeches?" he jokes, off-hand.  
  
Nicolas feels decidedly confused. Combeferre's never teased him before, and certainly not in a place like the cafe. "'A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness; but still will keep a bower quiet for us and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing'." He recites the passage softly, liking the feel. His own speeches are poems in blank verse, plain; not ugly, but plain. Keats is beautiful.  
  
"You're right. Well - let me see - we stopped the last time at the end of Book II. Where we are now -- 'There are those who lord it o're their fellow-men with most prevailing tinsel: Who unpen their baaing vanities, to browse away the comfortable green and juicy hay from human pastures...'"  
  
Nicolas listens happily. Although he sometimes hates being blind, he doesn't hate it always, and there are times when it is nicer to be read to than to read. Peculiarly enough, what Combeferre is reading seems appropriate to what he thinks. And someday, his children will be able to read these poems. Someday, they will be educated and they, too, will love to hear beautiful Keats, and others.  
  
He slips his hand into his overcoat pocket, stroking the silk of the fan. Someday... Someday, as Feuilly promised him, they will love him. They won't be afraid of him. They'll know how much he loves all of them, and they'll love him back. Someday, they won't run away.  
  
He catches the sound of footsteps, very soft footsteps. It must be Prouvaire, for Prouvaire is the only Ami who walks that softly. "Prouvaire?" he asks.  
  
"Enjolras. I heard Combeferre and realised he was reading Keats. Do you mind if I listen, too?"  
  
"Of course not."  
  
So Prouvaire pulls out a chair and sits on Nicolas' other side, placing him in the middle. Prouvaire smells of lilac, and vanilla, and inquires in his soft voice as to whether he may borrow a piece of Nicolas' parchment.  
  
"I like to draw when I'm listening," he explains. "To keep myself occupied. Do you find that it's easier to do two things at once than one? If I just listen, I find my mind wandering anywhere, and I can't concentrate on my task. Drawing keeps me too busy to think of anything but what I'm hearing. And when I'm writing, I like to listen to music." Prouvaire smiles at Combeferre. "I'm afraid I hound Courfeyrac into playing his violin."  
  
"*Courfeyrac* can *play* the *violin*?" This surprises Nicolas more than Combeferre's teasing ever could. His experience with Courfeyrac was never good, and he's of the opinion that the man is dreadful, annoying, and certainly unmusical.  
  
"He's quite good," Prouvaire says softly.  
  
"Oh." Nicolas blushes. "Oh! I meant to ask you. Where did you find my fan last week?"  
  
"Nowhere," says Prouvaire. "I mean to say-- I just found it. Someone must have knocked it on the floor," he finishes weakly.  
  
"Why are you lying to me?" He didn't intend it to sound so much like a demand.  
  
"Nicolas--" Combeferre tries to intervene.  
  
"I can't tell you. He didn't mean to take it, and there's no good in exposing him like a common thief. I'll reason with him. It won't happen again," Prouvaire says in a rush.  
  
"Yes." Nicolas feels relief sweep over him. He isn't losing things; they're being taken. "Yes, please do that." It's not his fault. Oh, he never thought he was going mad, but all the same - losing things and never finding them -- he had thought that he couldn't take care of his things, let alone men on a barricade -- but that's all right. It's all right.  
  
"I will," Prouvaire says, with equal relief in his voice.  
  
"It's all right," he assures Prouvaire. "You needn't worry. It's all right."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Combeferre," Nicolas asks, trying to bring them back to normal, "will you keep reading, please?"  
  
"Oh." Combeferre laughs. "Of course. 'Cynthia! where art thou now? What far abode of green or silvery bower doth enshrine such utmost beauty?'" He watches Nicolas over the tops of his spectacles as he reads.  
  
Nicolas sighs contentedly and pulls the fan out of his pocket to finger it. Happy, yes, he is happy today. And for once, he intends to stay happy. How beautiful Keats is! 


	9. Pensée

A thought.  
  
Pensée  
  
[[[Pater noster, qui es in cælis:]]]  
  
Prouvaire sits quietly at Nicolas' usual table, waiting for him. He has a small volume of poetry in his hands, leather-bound and inscripted with gold lettering cut into the cover. So that Enjolras can feel it, he tells himself. He'll like that, being able to feel it. Even if he can't understand what it means. Prouvaire smiles to himself and polishes a little imaginary dust off the cover with his sleeve.  
  
[[[sanctificétur nomen tuum;]]]  
  
Combeferre enters the cafe, also quietly, and tilts his head inquiringly at Prouvaire as he sits. "Jehan?"  
  
"Combeferre! Hello," Prouvaire smiles shyly. "Do you know where Enjolras is? I have a gift for him."  
  
"Feuilly took him to church. He wanted to pray over something." Combeferre pauses. "Over one of the street children, I believe. An accident. I regret," he adds softly, "that I am not enough in his confidence to know exactly why."  
  
Prouvaire reaches out and touches his hand. "I--"  
  
"'Fiat volúntas tua', non?* I just stand about and help when I can. When I am allowed, that is to say."  
  
[[[advéniat regnum tuum;]]]  
  
Prouvaire sits straight up, indignant, and clasps Combeferre's hand in his. "You can't say that. You're as important as Feuilly. You're as important as anyone. I'm certain he needs you."  
  
"He doesn't want to need me, Jehan. Feuilly treats him better than I do. Feuilly makes everything seem like a friendly gesture, so that it doesn't seem like help. I can't do that. I stumble. I don't know how to be his friend; I can only be his caretaker, and he hates me for it." Combeferre shrugs helplessly. "When we were younger - we grew up together, you know - I took him everywhere and was with him all the time. He called me 'frere', and -- pardon, je suis desole. I shouldn't be troubling you. Do you know why? Because that's my occupation. It's for everyone else to come to me, because old Combeferre is un philosophe. He can comfort and understand anyone's troubles. He always has something wise to say. --And they do call me 'old' Combeferre. Sometimes 'good old' Combeferre, but mostly just old. Do I look old to you? I seem old to everyone else."  
  
[[[fiat volúntas tua sicut in cælo, et in terra.]]]  
  
Prouvaire stares for a moment, and Combeferre watches, smelling the delicate scent of vanilla and lilac that belongs to him.  
  
"'Old'?" Prouvaire seems almost as though he may cry. "God, no. No. You're just my age. Oh, you look more like a man than I do; I'm only a boy; but you're never old. If men are so blind as to mistake wisdom for age, then--"  
  
"Dolorum nostrum cotidiánum da nobis hódie."**  
  
"*Panem* nostrum, *panem*. Health. Life. Please don't say such things. Enjolras--"  
  
"--Wishes I weren't here."  
  
[[[Panem nostrum cotidiánum da nobis hódie;]]]  
  
Prouvaire trembles, and suddenly drops his book to the floor, lunging forward to embrace Combeferre. It is an impulsive action, a more quick and violent action than shy, sweet Jehan should be provoked to, but he cannot think of anything else to do. He wants to stop Combeferre from speaking, because, he tells himself fiercely, none of it's true.  
  
"No, no. He wants you. He needs you. But he isn't a child any longer," he insists quickly, to stave off argument. "It's proper now, isn't it, for men to hide what they feel? Children can cry and cling to their mothers, but men can't. Children can love their playmates, can't they, but then they grow up and they must keep affection to themselves."  
  
Combeferre has embraced him back, and they are making a spectacle of themselves, Prouvaire shaking and talking so fast his words become mixed up, and Combeferre rocking him unconsciously and nodding his head.  
  
"Please - he loves you still, then. I know it. A man becomes impatient with even his closest friend from time to time, but it doesn't mean he hates him. You can't think so."  
  
"No..."  
  
[[[et dimítte nobis débita nostra,]]]  
  
"Combeferre, please, please, believe me." Prouvaire finally remembers that they're in the middle of the cafe, and detaches himself slowly. "He doesn't hate you. He doesn't know how to hate. He wishes you could treat him more as a friend, certainly; anyone would want that. But he doesn't hate you."  
  
[[[sicut et nos dimíttimus debitóribus nostris;]]]  
  
Combeferre doesn't answer, kneeling and retrieving the little book of poetry from the floor. "'Isabelle, or The Pot of Basil'. 'Ode on the Death of the Duc de Berri'. 'Pater Noster'. Quite an assortment you've got in here. --Oh."  
  
The last four pages were left blank, and Prouvaire wrote his own poem on them. Combeferre stays kneeling, reading it, his spectacles falling off the end of his nose from the tilt of his head and the impact of the Prouvaire's embrace.  
  
"Oh, don't read that. It's not very good."  
  
[[[et ne nos indúcas in tentatiónem;]]]  
  
"'Da Nobis Hódiem: Une Pensée par Jehan Michel Prouvaire.'"  
  
Nicolas slips into the cafe just as Combeferre reads out the title. He stops, and his lips part in surprise. "Combeferre?"  
  
"But that's not correct. It's 'da nobis hódie'," Combeferre tells Prouvaire, then looks up. "Nicolas?"  
  
"Combeferre? Why are you on the floor?" Nicolas kneels beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"I'm just fetching something Jehan dropped back to him. It's a book of poetry."  
  
"Your poetry, Prouvaire?"  
  
"No... It's for you. It's a gift. I don't know. I thought--" Suddenly, Prouvaire's shy again. "I thought you might like it. There's Keats, and Hugo, and other poets... I don't know."  
  
"Merci." Nicolas' face doesn't change its expressionless expression, but somehow he seems to be smiling. "Combeferre, I was searching for you. I wondered if you'd write for me. I have a speech I've just thought up."  
  
"Won't Feuilly do it?"  
  
"Don't you want to? I thought you'd like to." Nicolas lifts his hand from Combeferre's shoulder.  
  
"I'd like to. Please. Yes. Just a moment, and I'll find my pen."  
  
"I already have one."  
  
"Oh, yes. I'd forgotten." Combeferre smiles.  
  
[[[sed líbera nos a malo.]]]  
  
Prouvaire stands, and moves away, his errand complete when Nicolas accepted the poetry. He turns back, however, before he reaches the door. "Combeferre? It's meant to be 'da nobis hódiem'. The answer isn't 'give us, today'. It's 'give us today'. It will always be that way."  
  
Combeferre isn't listening. Prouvaire leaves the cafe.  
  
[[[Amen]]]  
  
~~~  
  
Translation: Our Father,  
  
Who art in heaven,  
  
Hallowed be thy name.  
  
Thy kingdom come,  
  
Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven  
  
Give us today our daily bread,  
  
And forgive us our trespasses,  
  
As we forgive those who trespass against us,  
  
And lead us not into temptation,  
  
But deliver us from evil.  
  
Amen  
  
*'Fiat volúntas tua'; 'Thy will be done'.  
  
**'Dolorum nostrum cotidiánum da nobis hódie'; 'Give us today our daily sorrow 


	10. Voir

An ending  
  
Voir  
  
Nicolas stands, quietly, within the completed barricades, and Feuilly stands beside him, holding one of his hands in the manner of one of Hephaestus' golden maidens. Nicolas looks at last like a man who could command men. His long, golden hair is tied back discreetly, his overlong greatcoat is unbuttoned, and his chin is tipped up a little. He is shaking just the slightest bit, but it's unnoticeable, and Feuilly's holding his hand looks like more like a respectful gesture than a supporting one.  
  
No one save Feuilly knows, but in the pockets of the coat is every speech Combeferre ever copied down, folded very small and placed inside. The fan is also there, and the little book of poetry that Prouvaire gave to him.  
  
"You seem ready now. There won't be fighting for a while."  
  
"I need to be ready. I need to be believed."  
  
"Come now. You mustn't worry. In all likelihood, we'll have the full night before anyone comes. You must sleep if you want to oversee things properly."  
  
Nicolas doesn't answer. He's noticed - had noticed for some time, really - that Feuilly is the only person who doesn't mind using the words 'see' or 'look' around him. He's often wished more people would realise it didn't matter. It's odd. Men are odd. What they are and why they do things have never truly made sense to him ever. He tells himself he understands children, rather than men, but in reality he doesn't understand any of them. He would imagine they don't understand him either, and yet they must, or they wouldn't be here now.  
  
"I mean it. Come with me. You shall listen to them. Why would you ever need to see their faces if you could hear their voices? You shall know them all to-night better than you have in the number of months they've come to you."  
  
Nicolas obeys, quietly, allowing Feuilly to pull him gently along, too lost in his own thoughts to hear exactly what Feuilly has told him. In the walk to the part of the barricade where Les Amis are gathered, he manages to lose his look of command. Once again, he is little Nicolas Enjolras, the blind boy. But already it is growing dark, and no one sees except Feuilly.  
  
"Here. --Combeferre, Prouvaire! Joly! Bonsoir, mes amis."  
  
They laugh, the others, and Nicolas lifts his head. Feuilly sits on the ground, and Nicolas sits beside him, struggling to make it dignified. It doesn't matter, however, for no one is looking.  
  
"Well, then, Bahorel," Courfeyrac offers, "what grand, profound recollections have you about this past year? What is the first thing you'll do in Utopia?"  
  
"Go to the theatre," Bahorel says, quite unafraid of how it will be received.  
  
"The theatre! Oh, dear. You never told me you liked the theatre."  
  
Bahorel laughs. "Does anyone tell you anything? What is the first thing *you'll* do, rogue?"  
  
"Write a letter to my family." Courfeyrac laughs as well. "Ask them if they'll take back their renegade son. Ask them if they'll put me back in their wills. Ask them if they'll permit me to come home. They disowned me, you see, because Bohemia is disgusting thing to waste a young man on. Monsieur d'Courfeyrac, they'd have liked to call me. I don't want it. I'm a good Republican."  
  
"They disowned you?" Prouvaire asks sadly. "Isn't it a terrible loss, a son?"  
  
"Of course not! They can always find a suitable stable boy and give him my name. I assume, then, that yours kept you?"  
  
"They do." Prouvaire smiles a little. "They send me beautiful blue ink on holidays. For Christmas."  
  
Nicolas listens to them, in a way, taking in tone more than words. He supposes that they really are very good men. Even Courfeyrac, perhaps. He pauses. Not Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac is a horrid man, clearly, and doesn't even appreciate his parents. Nicolas sighs. He understands better than any of them, he thinks, that parents are devoted and that they'd do better not to disregard them. In that, he favours Prouvaire. And then there are men like dear Feuilly, who don't have any parents at all. He is an orphan, like all of Nicolas' children; a child without any parents at all except the revolution.  
  
The conversation has by now moved to Combeferre.  
  
"But do you have any regrets?" Courfeyrac asks him. "Did you lose anything? Will you get it back now?"  
  
"I lost my freedom the day I was born, and I will have that back now. I lost my brother, and I will never have him back if this succeeds."  
  
"Is he a royalist?" Courfeyrac speaks curiously, with the voice of a man not asking a question so much as trying to clarify a statement. He isn't aware Combeferre had a brother, and if it turns out that the brother is indeed a royalist, everything will make sense.  
  
"No," says Combeferre, shaking his head with half a smile. "He's not."  
  
"You make no sense, man. Is he dead?"  
  
"Not at all."  
  
"Then I give up. Who is your brother?"  
  
"You needn't know, monsieur d'Courfeyrac."  
  
Courfeyrac pouts a moment, standing out severely from the other men around him. Then he tilts his head to one side. "Well, I shall be your brother to make up for him."  
  
"Thank you." Combeferre laughs.  
  
Nicolas bites his lip. Combeferre never had a brother. From beside him, Feuilly says, "Come now, Courfeyrac, you're tiresome. Jehan, Jehan, recite us a poem."  
  
"I can't just... say poems."  
  
"Of course you can. Tell us anything."  
  
"I can't think up rhymes quickly enough."  
  
"Jehan," Courfeyrac protests.  
  
"All right." He clears his throat, and sings, nervously. His voice is sweet in the almost-dark around them.  
  
"'Where are we now before the sun?  
  
Where are we now beneath the sky?  
  
Before a last day tells the future  
  
Beneath a thousand dreams we lie--'"  
  
"Jehan. Not to-night." It's Courfeyrac speaking, frowning. "No. To-night we need a love song. You can't sing us this to-night."  
  
"All right." Prouvaire shivers. "All right.  
  
'Do you recall how life was kind  
  
When youth and hope still filled our breast,  
  
And we'd no other thought in mind  
  
Than to be lovers and well-dressed?'"  
  
"Better. Good man. Go on."  
  
Nicolas rests his head on Feuilly's shoulder without thinking. They are strange, these men, all of them. Why is Prouvaire sad to hear Courfeyrac's family disowned him? Why did Combeferre say he had a brother? Why did Courfeyrac tell Prouvaire 'not to-night'? Why does Bahorel like the theatre? Why did Feuilly ask him to come hear this? Why, why, why? He imagines he hears the voice of that little girl saying, 'merci, monsieur!'. He imagines he is holding the blind gamine who really was his daughter. He imagines he speaks with the blind gamine who was so much not his daughter.  
  
He imagines that all his children are happy. He imagines that they are all fed, and clothed, and that they all have homes. But he imagines they still have cold hands.  
  
Impulsively, he takes Feuilly's hands in his. Cold hands.  
  
"Enjolras, are you listening?" Feuilly asks in a whisper.  
  
"Yes..."  
  
"Good."  
  
Nicolas feels cold air blow on his face, feels a little light wind. He puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out the fan, spreading it wide in both his hands. "Je t'aime," he tells the fan, too quiet for anyone else to hear.  
  
To-morrow, everything will change. He folds the fan away, and this time, he listens to his Amis.  
  
Fin 


End file.
